Late Shifts
by Adaneth of Lebennin
Summary: Angie Martinelli is stuck with a late shift at the automat. She expects rude customers aplenty. She doesn't expect to see the SSR's premier man. A short tale of dreams, coffee, and cherry pie.


A/N: Hello readers! *waves enthusiastically* While this isn't my first fic, it is the first I have brought into the public sphere. Comments and constructive criticism are appreciated.

Disclaimer: (see profile for full/general) I don't own the characters from the show Agent Carter and I'm not making money from this. Agent Carter belongs to Marvel and not me, because if it did, you would probably have to wait as long for its premiere as Sherlock season 4.

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Angie Martinelli was not one for late night shifts at the automat, but the pen signing her paycheck wasn't gonna budge if she didn't. She sighed, looking out at the lights of Manhattan. If she squinted, she could see the glow of Broadway. Yeah, there was a place she could stay late.

"Hey, drape shape, you gonna let the coffee get cold, or what?" Angie broke out of her daydream with a disgusted grimace. She grabbed the coffee pot and left the counter, plastering a smile on her face like she wasn't imagining dumping the drink on that creep's head. She poured the dark coffee into his mug with one hand on her hip and walked away. Before she could get too far, however, he called after her. "Hey sugar, are you rationed? It's not just because this coffee's bitter. Waitress, you listening or have you gone deaf? Dumb, too?"

She bit her lip and glared at the clock, prepared to ignore the comment and fume about it out of sight, when some guy appeared out of the shadows like he was in a film or something. "Now that's no way to talk to a lady. Apologize."

The creep's face twisted in surprise. "Apologize, what for? I was just asking the dame if she was going steady with anyone. She should take that as a compliment."

The guy glanced at her, baby blues taking in her mask before turning to the other man, glaring. He placed one hand on the back of the chair, the other on the table, leaning over menacingly. "I don't think she did. Now apologize, or you can find some other establishment to harass someone, 'cause it isn't going to be here." Oh, he was smooth, and threatening, come to think of it.

The creep glanced at the inside of the man's jacket, which hung open just enough for Angie to glimpse something shiny. He paled and backed out of his seat. "Fine. If that's how you suits play it, she's all yours." He hightailed it out of the revolving doors like the man had set a ghost on him. Angie returned to the counter to set the coffee pot back on the heater. Just who did he think he was? She didn't _need_ a knight in shining armor, even if he was pretty.

He slid into a stool on the counter, a slice of cherry pie in his hands. "Got any extra whipped cream?" Angie crossed her arms and tilted her head.

"You didn't have to tell that guy to scram for me. I deal with sleaze balls like that all day," she told him, jerking her thumb in the direction of the door.

He turned his movie star face up to her. "Yeah? Well, sometimes someone else needs to draw the fire."

"Right. You a military man or something?" she jabbed, getting the can. She sprayed a dollop onto the pie.

He shrugged. "I was. Some could say it never left me."

Angie twisted her lips. That was cryptic, cryptic like Peggy. She took a good look at the guy: slick blond hair, dream boat jaw, wide lapels that sat just-so on his shapely shoulders.

"You were that guy that came looking for Peg, weren't you?" she asked furtively. When he perked up, she realized that that wasn't the best question to keep her involvement in that adventure under wraps. She scrambled to recover. "How's your GamGam?"

He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "She's doing well." He turned those sharp eyes to hers. "And how's your acting? That performance at the Griffith was pretty good."

Angie panicked, eyes wide and jaw dropped. "What?" He must not just be the pretty boy cop she thought he was.

"It wasn't too hard to figure out what you were up to once we caught her. It ended all right, though. Carter's one tough dame."

She nodded. "She's a smart cookie, all right. Not the best at making friends, though."

"You must be one heck of a friend, then."

Angie wanted to jig a little at that compliment. She smiled. "Well, somebody's gotta draw the fire sometimes, right?"

He grinned, finishing off his pie while standing. "Right. Well, if you ever want to get out of here, I can get Broadway tickets pretty easy." He flicked his lapels and put on his fedora. He was still a bit of the assuming jerk Peg complained about, though more sparingly, lately.

"Shouldn't I know your name before you ask me on a date? I can't keep calling you Pretty Boy."

"Agent Jack Thompson."

"Angie Martinelli."

She stuck out her hand to shake. He stared at it for a second, but then he took it, giving his best silver-screen smile.

"So, about that date?"

She shook her head. "Nah, I think I'll pass, but after my next audition, I'll get you a ticket and a backstage tour to Funny Face," she waved her hands in an arc, "starring Angie Martinelli."

He smiled, opening the door. "Should I bring anything?"

"I like red roses…and champagne."

He tipped his hat, winking. "Sure, kid."

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A/N: I used a lot of slang here. A quick Google search should answer most questions, but I can put them up here if you would like. I also don't remember if "Pretty Boy" is something from the show or just my headcanon, but I find it works. Reviews, comments, and constructive criticism make my day!

Update: Aside from small edits, I researched more into the history of whipped cream. I can't find much besides its mention in the 17th century and its popularity as a spray-canned form in 1948. For this fic, I changed it from being spooned onto the pie to being sprayed, since it's likely that earlier versions of the spray-can existed, though I can't prove it for 1945-7. This was probably boring, it bugged me.


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